Ground Me
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: UA in which Kid never joined the Academy. Liz and Patti drag Kid with them to their workplace, Deathbucks, his pockets lined only with barely concealed discomfort and a twenty dollar bill. Social matters have never been his forte, but when a kind eyed barista by the name of Kilik writes his number beneath Kid's name on his cup, the future begins to look a bit less lonely.
1. Chapter 1

**Not Actually The Author's Note** — Hello, this is ilarual (more commonly known as Laura), posting on Ash's behalf. This is part of one of her contributions to this year's Reverse Resonance Bang (or Reverb). She's had a minor personal emergency, nothing serious, but something that's keeping her away from the computer for an indeterminate period of time. She hasn't had time to finish up the last couple scenes of her fic (again due to said personal emergency) so I can't post the whole thing for her, but she didn't want to leave her artist partner hanging.

Once she's back online she'll edit and post the full version of this fic, but here's something of a preview of her Reverb work. Her partner, who goes on Tumblr by ashsocolourful, who seems to have invented this unorthodox and entirely adorable ship (for which she has coined the portmanteau Dik) has art that can be found on her Tumblr at this URL: ashsocolourful DOT tumblr DOT com /post/123434873159/reverb-2k15-completed-art-title-symmetry

* * *

When Father had suggested that he should get out more, perhaps socialize with other meisters and their weapons, get a _feel_ for humanity, Kid is absolutely positive that _this_ is **not** what Dear Daddy Death had meant. Granted, he can admit he feels frighteningly human here, with lips against his neck and blood flushing from his forehead to his elbows. Everything is warm, but the clean kind of warmth that could never be found in the grime that follows the sun, and though before this he never really found himself _craving_ this particular brand of human interaction, he can certainly see himself getting used to it now.

He doesn't like the way it seems to be that he's all take and no give, doesn't like the imbalance of the dynamic, so he does his best to gather his concentration and try to understand what it is that's so nice about this and how he could reciprocate.

And as he presses his lips to Kilik's throat, drags his pristine pearly whites over it experimentally as the boy groans, he has to contain a chuckle at just how this all started eight weeks ago...

* * *

"You need to get out. You're pale as death."

"Ha ha, hilarious Elizabeth. I appreciate the concern, but I'd prefer to do as I please. Which does not involve going to a dusty, germ infested coffee shop. Thank you, but no."

Liz quirks an immaculate brow (his doing) at him, her ringed fist clenched at her hip as her toes tap rapidly against the polished white tiles, the pace impressively perfect and vaguely intimidating, much like most other things about Liz. Kid stands his ground though, suppressing a mild retch at the thought of sticky vinyl booths and scummy tables coated in immortal coffee rings. He thinks their filth might even outlive him…

"You refused to enroll in your dad's hoity toity school, Kid. And I totally get it, really, cause school is bullshit-"

"Language, Liz-"

"Whatever, school is worthless and no one knows that better than me, but you seriously need to get out of this damn… house- mansion thing? Can it even be called a house anymore? Anyway, point is, either you agree with me, or I get Patti, and she'll make you agree with me. Take your pick Kiddo, but either way, you're visiting us at work today."

Well.

For lack of a better term…

 _Shit._

So he goes.

* * *

And he was right in his assumptions, at least about the sticky vinyl. He knows it can be blamed on the heinous Death City heat, but he can almost see the bacteria creeping along the self proclaimed "fabric". He doesn't bother to wipe it down before he takes his seat in the back center booth, knowing that Liz and probably all of her curious co workers are already watching. He silently thanks his father for agreeing to dedicate a portion of the manor to the purpose of being an at home dry cleaners facility, and sits up as straight as possible, sure to keep his cuffs off the table.

Patti approaches, the scent of gunmetal, cappuccino, and bubblegum tape wafting off her with every step, and Kid does his level best not to cringe at the mildly frightening grin stretched across her deceptively sweet face. She plops down in the seat across from him, ignoring the dust motes that are displaced by her weight, and he does his best not to wrinkle his nose.

He must put on a strong face. He won't let her intimidate him into doing anything he doesn't want to do.

His eyelid twitches involuntarily as she picks at her messy, chipped, hot pink nail polish, grinning impishly at his tick, the slightest indication of weakness never escaping her notice.

 _Shit. They're devils, the both of them. All of Brooklyn was right._

"You gotta go up to the counter to order, Kiddo."

She smacks her lips loudly, pulls her gum over her tongue with her teeth, and exhales so hard that the bubble inflates and pops with a reverberating _crack._ He closes his eyes, trying desperately to center himself, to find his zen.

 _Just breathe, wipe away the saliva on the table later, it's fine. Nothing detrimental._

"If you don't get your lazy reaper ass up there and order a drink, no one's ever gonna take you seriously when you're a Death God."

His fingers twitch for the handkerchief in his pocket. He tucks all ten beneath his thighs, suppressing a cringe at how the seat sticks to his palms.

"I already _am_ a Death God."

She snorts, her quirked brow expressing all too clearly how dubious she finds his claim.

"Deeds not words, buddy boy, deeds not words. 'Sides, the barista's hot. Go order hot chocolate and see if he gets the hint," she says with a cheeky grin, complete with a wink and frighteningly real finger gun wielding that results in two heavy impacts of pressure against his chest.

He chokes, sputters while clutching at the invisible elephant on his chest, "Patricia! Inappropriate workplace conduct-"

" _Ask for extra nutmeg_."

"Ugh, you're vulgar. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Says Wonderboy the bastard horcrux. Seriously, instead of the talk, did Daddy Death just hand you the Harry Potter series and leave the rest of the detective work to you?"

He pushes the finer details of soul splitting out of his mind, straightens his tie, and grumbles indignantly, "I really hate you sometimes."

"Love you too Kiddo. Anywho, my mom was a junked up hooker, I doubt she woulda tried to ride in on her moral high horse just cause I'm the only person who'll tell you when it's time to pull your head outta your ass and make friends _other_ than me and sissy."

The tone she takes when saying this rubs a raw nerve.

"What makes you say that? We've been quite successful in the past few years, have we not?"

"You know that's not what I mean, dumdum," she says, flicking his forehead before turning on her heel and skipping back to the counter, tossing over her shoulder, "Go get something sweet or I'll tell Papa Perish your pissy attitude spoiled all the milk in the shop."

A little smile twitches at the corners of Kid's lips, and he's a little glad she can't see it.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're _udderly un-brie-leavable._ Now go socialize before I sic Harv's notorious cheek-pincher of a grandma on ya, I've got twerps to serve!"

He rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face would be impossible to deny. He's grateful to have Patti and Liz in his life. They may make him uncomfortable, but they also help him grow, help him see what it is to be human, the beautiful, the painful, and the ugly alike.

With a heavy sigh, he stands and approaches the counter, seeking out the menu for something decaffeinated and chilly. A vibration in his pocket tells him Patti is most likely sending him all the worst puns and sex jokes she can think of, and though he finds it a bit absurd, he still locks messages like these on his phone.

He removes it from his pocket, sliding the message open, and it reads-

 _Order the mint chocolate milkshake_

Back in the kitchen he hears poorly concealed cackling, and he sends back a specially created emoji.

Two middle fingers clad in silver skull rings.

The cackling is muffled now, and he replaces his phone in his pocket, feeling slightly better about the whole situation. When he finally looks up, he sees that Maka is here, along with a small group of others around the same age. He's known her all her life, grew up around her and her father the majority of the time, and though she's asked him many times if he'd like to come along with her and these friends she holds so dear, for some reason he's never been able to accept.

It's always seemed so out of reach, so intimidating. Now he feels absurd, because if he had accepted back then, at least he wouldn't be feeling so out of place now, his hands hovering near his pockets and his eyes fixed on anything but the barista he's about to order from. He thinks to call Maka over, but the words catch in his throat when he sees her surreptitiously slip her hand into the hand of her white haired weapon. A wavelength of peace radiates from them, and he's thankful for their bond, especially now that he's within range of it. His shoulders relax from a tenseness he was unaware of, and he closes his eyes for a moment to revel in it. The chatter of the shop seems so much quieter.

"Next! Hey dude?"

Kid snaps out of his reverie, realizing with a scorching blush that he'd been standing there smiling like an idiot with his eyes closed, the line behind him short, but impatient nonetheless.

The guy who calls him up is the one Patti had been teasing him about, and now seeing up close the incredible bone structure and beautifully straight teeth, the dark, even complexion and neatly groomed hair, he can understand why she had thought to comment.

Wearing the nametag that reads Kilik, the absurdly well constructed barista guy has a pen tucked behind each ear, and Kid is about to inquire when Kilik asks him and the gentleman behind him both what their orders will be. The man behind Kid orders something complex, something heated, cooled, skimmed and so on, but Kilik still stares at Kid expectantly, a pen now in each hand that hovers over its own paper pad.

"Hey man, you know what you'd like yet? Open to new things or do you have an old standby?"

Kid blurts it before he can stop himself, "Chocolate mint milkshake?" forcing himself to keep eye contact and _not_ openly gush about the fact that this dude is _writing both orders at the same time._

"Good choice, that's one of my favourites."

 _Father, help him._

"You're ambidextrous."

The boy chuckles.

"You're observant."

"Ahhh- I'm just going to-"

"Here, it'll take just a few minutes," Kilik hands him an order number card, and Kid takes it with a silent nod, turning for a quick retreat to his back booth.

When he sits back down, desperately trying to compose himself because it's _ridiculous to be so impressed by something as simple as ambidexterity, (pull yourself together, it's not_ that _rare)_ just as he's calmed himself a bit he looks at his card.

Customer card number eight.

He narrows his eyes in the general vicinity of the front ordering station, seeking out a giggling Patti or Liz, but he only finds Kilik, a secretive smile curling his lips as he jots down orders on his notepads. Kid fidgets in his seat, stealing glances at any opportunity while pretending to be using his phone for free wifi purposes and not for 'I'm a fish on dry land and I'm trying to hide that fact' purposes. He's positive it's ineffective, his breathing needlessly offbeat and his limbs bouncing involuntarily under the table, but he's obstinate in his attempts, only putting the phone down when Kilik catches him off guard somehow, setting down an insulated to-go cup in front of Kid and smiling kindly.

"Just in case the room starts to shrink. Always better to have an option, right?"

Kid is about to respond, but Kilik is already halfway back to his station, tossing a wave over his shoulder, his fingertips shining with graphite dust when the light catches them. Something smells strangely chemical along with the sweet, and it isn't until he spins his cup so that his straw is angled properly that he realizes that in permanent marker there's a name, a phone number, and a small smiley face inked.

He glances back to the register, and Kilik is already looking at him, grinning widely, slightly smug but mostly playful. He raises a hand in a half wave, and Kid can't help but to reciprocate, his jaw still slightly ajar in surprise.

Perhaps noisey, sticky coffee shops aren't _quite_ as dreadful as he had thought.


	2. Chapter 2

For weeks, he shows up every Saturday, eight a.m. sharp. Things seem normal. He socializes. He makes beautifully human connections. He tries a different drink every week and things are _wonderful._ He feels content, balanced, at peace.

And then he has a dream that would make Salvidor Dali _salivate,_ and when he wakes, everything is _wrong._

It's Saturday and eight o' five and nothing is right. He wakes by smacking his head off the floor on the left side of his bed, opens his eyes and sees nothing but bedsprings and echos of melting faces and tilting hallways and funhouse mirrors. He wakes and he regrets it, because he's stuck here in the reality of absolute chaos and he can't wake from _this._

 _Dear Death_ _ **make it stop.**_

He squeezes his eyes shut, but it does him no good. The contents of his mind have been scattered, shredded, whipped into a cataclysmic mess of noise that buzzes in his skull like a beaten hive of bees.

He squeezes his eyes shut so hard that everything is black and mottled with tie dye splotches. He wonders why he can see without seeing, why there's this wreckage, this clutter, even when he dares not look upon the world. It laughs at his pain in all its chromatic glory, and when he forces himself to wrench his eyelids open, he finds no relief.

The ceiling offers him no solitude. All his senses are on overdrive. He's a God tripping over an adrenaline rush, eyesight beyond impeccable and incredibly aware of the imperfect divots in the plaster, the twisting tones of white, eggshell, and the ever unwelcome _cream, despicable excuse for a paint colour-_

He rearranges all the paintings in the manor eight times each.

He runs the hot and cold water, suffers through his shower with chattering teeth; being a God only gives so many freedoms.

He's unpleasantly aware of just how human he still is, has always been. So flawed, so incapable of coping.

So _tired._

 _So very tired._

He doesn't look at his reflection when he dresses, his movement merely muscle memory. It isn't until he sees an empty coffee cup on one of his dressers, so ragged and out of place, stained with cheap ink and jagged handwriting, that he realizes _why_ it is that he's bothering to dress.

It's Saturday.

And he has somewhere to be.

* * *

It takes far too long to reach the front doorstep, long enough that his pride is hardly hanging on a flimsy limb. One step, then the next, then the next. First goal is to reach the corner without incident. Then the intersection.

He ignores the absurd lack of traffic lights at the crossroads, keeps his head down and continues. Using Beelzebub is an option, but the notion makes him vaguely sick to his stomach. The cowardice of it would be unbearable, to simply fly above all that irks him, all that twists his insides and crawls into his throat in heavy, tense panic.

If he can't do this, why should anyone bother to care for him? Who would sink to being the friend of an incomplete, lopsided, feeble excuse for a God? Who would waste their time on a _boy_ who can't handle walking down a street without being struck with vertigo and grief at once?

He knows that they all know, and they humour him. He wishes they wouldn't. This little bit of hope for human, healthy connections that he has is heavy and hurtful. Why not just turn around, go home and try to center himself-

"Hey Kid!"

It's Maka, hand in hand with Soul, and she's holding open the door for Kid, the air of the coffee shop rushing to greet them with a sharp snap of cold and the scent of fresh grounds.

The sight of them together, two total opposites coexisting in such simplistic harmony- It calms him.

His lips twitch upward into a weak, but genuine smile, and he thanks her as he walks into the coffee shop, his resolve strengthened by the magnitude of the bond just on his heels, pushing him forward to his booth. They don't follow him, but they do invite him to join them anytime, and he's thankful.

It's just after one. The lunch rush has died down a bit, and his booth in the center in the back waits for him, seemingly surrounded by an intangible force field. He's sweating despite the air conditioning chilling the place to a cool 65, and when he sits, it's much more like he's collapsed into place, burnt out but proud. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the vinyl cushion he's become so shamefully possessive of, breathing slowing with every moment.

Hardly two minutes pass before the atmosphere shifts. Kid's eyes open to find Kilik across from him, his work apron slung over a shoulder, and a tall, sweating mug clutched in his hands.

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

Kid runs through all of the events of the morning, of the chaos and absurdity and torment.

And he bursts into a fit of laughter that hitches his ribs, flushes his cheeks and makes them pleasantly tender. Through watering eyes, he can see the wavering image of his companion, Kilik's grin wide though his brows crinkle, amused, or incredulous, or a strange mixture of both. It only makes Kid laugh harder, his hands coming up to cover his warm face, a last ditch effort to preserve some semblance of dignity. Silently, he admits to himself that he's grateful to Kilik for letting him get this out, for waiting patiently while Kid catches the edge of hysterics that creep up his throat and drags them back into a warehouse of unwarranted worries in the depths of his soul.

"Oh, you have _no idea,_ " he snorts, the noise inelegant and perfect for the moment at hand.

"So, you ever gonna use that number I gave you? Or is it just going to collect dust on your dresser as your favourite paper weight?"

"Who- _Elizabeth._ "

"Yeahhh she's pretty invested in your social life I think. It's kinda sweet, in a strange, overbearing older sister kinda way. I'll probably be the same way with the twins when they start getting all weird and pubescent on me."

"Twins? Are they your brother and sister?"

"My weapons, actually, but they're more like family than any family I've ever had. I'll introduce you to them sometime. You'd all probably get along."

* * *

"Oh for fuck's saaaaaake, just text him already! You're so socially lame, it's almost hard to comprehend." He scowls at Liz, but he knows that she's not far off. Kilik had made it clear on multiple occasions in multiple ways now that Kid was more than welcome to text him, call him, skype him, _whatever,_ and yet Kid still finds himself staring longingly at his sharpie stained cup.

He memorized the number weeks ago. It rattles in his head sometimes, harmonized with a catchy jingle that's positively insidious. He's dialed it multiple times, and he's typed out long, overly polite texts that seem so awkwardly formal when he rereads them, it borders on _painful._ It doesn't make sense for him to be so incapable of making such a simple decision. He's chosen to end lives before, why the hell is this causing him so much conflict?

Patti slaps him on his back, hard, unaware as ever of just how freakishly strong she is (or perhaps more aware than she'll ever let on). "You're totally a sucker for Kilik, Kiddo," she casually mentions, taking each of his shoulders in her hands and shaking him gently (for her, at least). "Just come to terms with it and getchur head outta your ass. He's obviously into you, what have you got to lose?"

And she just doesn't get it, damn it. He's finally started to make more friends, something he wasn't aware that he needed so intensely, something that his life had been devoid of, that he's almost positive he can no longer do without. The people he's met, that he's gotten to know, they give him perspective. He no longer looks at things in such blunt terms as morally black and white, abstract or symmetrical, even or uneven. He's been given all the shades of grey, given every colour on the spectrum, given different points of view and different ideals and different kinds of beauty, and he's _hooked._

A misstep feels like a catastrophic failure. A breeze could topple this house of cards.

But as he starts to sweat, twitch, curl inward upon himself, Liz takes one of his hands, and Patti retrieves a cold washrag for him before taking his other hand. They breathe slowly, their souls curling together and then wrapping protectively around his, their calm wavelengths dragging his panicked one into their peace.

It's now that he's reminded of the kind of power that true bonds can have, and it seems so absurd that he ever thought that he could ruin a friendship with an awkwardly written text.

With closed eyes and an open soul, he inhales deeply, slowly, exhaling his anxiety in a satisfying whoosh of breath. Liz's soul wriggles in poorly contained smugness and pride, and Patti's pulses with joy. When his eyes open, the younger girl already has his phone ready for him, and Liz nudges his shoulder with hers.

"Go get 'im tiger. Even if all you want is to be friends with him, he'd be thankful for it. Your friendship is a goddamn gift, ya dweeb, so stop acting like people who give you the time of day are doing you a favour. It's not like you're hard to love."

"Hard to deal with when you're having a hissy fit, totally!" Patti chimes in, "but that's only what you sometimes do, not who you are. So go on and make someone's day, Kiddo."

* * *

 _I don't mean to intrude, you may be busy, and if so please don't feel obligated to-_

No, no, no, that's insulting, Kilik isn't the type to feel obligated to give anyone pity or attention, he's straightforward, and he told Kid to text him.

 _You said I could text you, so I'm-_

No.

 _Hey, it's Kid. Sorry it took so long._

His thumb hovers over the 'send' key, and he stares at the draft long enough to go a little crosseyed before he sends it. He immediately stuffs his phone in his pocket, doing his best to not seem too eager for a reply (at which he fails, he's turned the volume all the way up).

The seconds tick by, silently deafening him, ricocheting around in his skull and crowding together more and more as each passes.

One hundred twenty eight seconds.

The chime pierces through the silence, drains the conglomeration of moments from his hazy brain. His hands shake, none too subtle about informing him of his nerves, but he manages to retrieve his device from his pocket without dropping and shattering his EyePhone. Knotted stomach flip flopping is the strangest sensation, and his pulse thunders uncomfortably in his neck and fingers. He can feel his heart beat in the pad of the digit he opens the message with, and he imagines the force of it being so strong that he accidentally clicks the screen twice, calling Kilik with only the excuse of 'my finger made me do it'. A feeble explanation to say the least.

Luckily, though, things go much more smoothly than the catastrophes he tends to play out in his mind.

 _Hey yourself. I'm really glad you texted me, I was just finishing making dinner for the twins and thought of you and how I was gonna kick your ass next time I saw you if you didn't text :p_

Kid isn't positive, but he's pretty sure this is what Liz and Patti call flirting.

As if on cue, Patti points out matter of factly, "He is totally flirting. What are you gonna say, Kiddo? Didn't your momma ever teach you howta snag yourself a man?" she chortles, poking his sides as he wriggles out of her reach, a smile cementing itself on his face. He feels like an absolute fool. Never has he wished for any sort of romance or flirtation, nor has he really ever understood or experienced it, but this particular aspect? The teasing banter?

He likes this so far.

"I'm a bit lacking in the mother department, care to share any wisdom your own mother taught you?"

"Well," she says with a filthy grin, and he regrets asking immediately as she continues, "she told me the way to a man's heart is through his dick, and as far as I know she ain't wrong."

He suppresses a gag, trying to think happy thoughts, thoughts of a world in which he was very much so unaware of his dear weapon's way of spending her free time. Surely there's a witch somewhere in the world with the power to erase this information from his memory…

"Remind me to never ask you for advice again."

" _Ask him to cream your coffee, c'mon you've gotta._ "

" _Patricia!"_

" _Me!"_

The undiluted glee radiating off her, mixed with the second chime of his phone and the hysterical laughter coming from Liz half a room away, whips him into a fit of chuckles that leaves his abdomen sore. The second message reads-

 _I'm jk though I wouldn't try to kick your ass coz the pistol sisters would probs murder me. You free on Sunday? I'm bringing the twins to the park and IsCream shop if you wanna come along._

Well.

That was fast.

His answer is immediate and nothing but truth.

 _I would love to. What time?_

Not even a minute passes, another chime.

 _How does 8 sound? ;p_

"Ohmigod he's sending the wink face LIZ HE SENT THE WINK FACE THIS IS SERIOUS BIZNESS!" Liz whistles lowly, strolling over to Kid with a sly smile.

"Patti's right. We gotta find you something to wear."

His eyes roll, but his cheeks ache, and he types out a quick,

 _Sounds perfect :)_

* * *

 ** _To be continued..._**


End file.
